


make a wish

by smudgesofink



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, all the times Victor was sad on his birthday and the one time he really truly wasn't, in which Yuuri bakes an ugly cake and Victor loves it so much he cries, mentions of Yurio bc why not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 20:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15032333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smudgesofink/pseuds/smudgesofink
Summary: “Happy birthday Vitya, happy birthday Vitya—”(I wish Makkachin would never leave me. He’s the only one I have left.)(I wish I won’t be alone anymore.)“Happy birthday, little ice prince—”(I wish I can remember what it’s like to be happy.)“Happy birthday to you…”(I wish—I wish—)Victor closes his eyes and blows out the candle.





	make a wish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [valverasofia](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=valverasofia).



> I'M BACK FROM THE DEPTHS OF HELL!
> 
> Kidding. I'm back though!! And I'm bringing my usual with me, a piping hot plate of angst with a side of fluff. (There's cake somewhere in here, too.)
> 
> This is written for my best girl, @valverasofia. Happy Birthday, sis!

 

Picture this:

Victor is ten years-old, laughing as he sits on the floor in the space between his mom’s long legs, playfully blowing away the silver hair strands that fall on his face and tickle his nose. There’s a cake set on the tiles in front of them, covered in blue frosting with ten lit candles on top. The apartment is littered with balloons and torn gift wrappers. It’s a silly sight but Victor’s mom said they’re allowed to be silly because it’s Victor’s birthday and people are allowed to be silly during their birthdays.

“Mama, Mama, Mamaaaaa,” Victor chants, tugging a little on his mom’s long hair. His ocean eyes are fixed on the dancing flames of the candles, entranced with the bright orange glow. “Sing the song, Mama. The candles will melt!”

His mother chuckles. “Alright, alright,” she concedes, making a show of leisurely clearing her throat, and then laughs once more when Victor whines. “Happy birthday _Vitya_ , happy birthday _Vitya_ ,” his mother finally sings, her voice a soft melody right next to his ears, “Happy birthday, little ice prince”—she interrupts the song as she reaches the high note to blow a raspberry on his cheek, grinning when Victor squirms with a squeal—“Happy birthday to you _._ ”

Victor claps his hands giddily. “Can I blow out the candles now?”

“Go ahead, _solnyshko_ ,” His mom hides a fond grin against his hair, pressing a kiss on the top of his head. “Make a wish.”

Victor’s wide eyes press shut, his face scrunching up in determined concentration as he makes his birthday wish. _I wish Papa comes home soon_ , he wishes. _I wish Mama’s sickness gets better. I wish I can keep making her laugh. I wish I can be good enough to join the Junior champions this year._

With a puff of his cheeks that makes him look like a chipmunk (he knows this because his mother laughs again), Victor blows out his candles.

“What did you wish for?” His mother asks him later after she’s peppered his face with kisses and painted Victor’s nose with a swipe of frosting.

Victor blinks.

His mom is silly. Everyone knows wishes don’t come true if you say them out loud. Nonetheless, Victor burrows himself further into his mom’s hug and makes the least sacrifice, “I wished I can skate better.”

His mom hums. “I’m sure you can do it, _solnyshko._ ”

 

Picture this:

Victor is fifteen, sitting on the floor with his mother in front of him and there’s a blue birthday cake between them. There’s a gold medal around his neck, marking his fourth consecutive win, and his braided hair reaches up to his collarbone now. There are balloons bouncing gently on their apartment floor, getting noticeably fewer and fewer in each passing year. But as he holds his mother’s cold hands in his warm grip, Victor notes that he doesn’t particularly care.

“Happy birthday _Vitya_ , happy birthday _Vitya_ ,” his mom sings in a teasing lilt, as always, and it makes Victor grin fondly as he watches her instead of the flickering candles. She’s gotten thinner, but not alarmingly so; her cheeks are just the slightest bit sunken, her skin paler than before. Victor rubs at her hands, trying to help her poor circulation. If Victor is going to be honest, the only thing keeps him from worrying too much is the way her smiles still light up her brown eyes. His mother is still beautiful, still so full of life even when sickly, even when his father never came back after leaving them so suddenly all those years ago.

“—ppy birthday, Victor.” The greeting pulls him back to reality, and Victor blinks to see his mother smiling at him. She beckons him forward and leans over when he does, meeting him halfway so she can kiss his forehead. “I’m so proud of you, _solnyshko._ Make a wish.”

Victor peers down to where the candles are glowing back at him, and he doesn’t hesitate to close his eyes. _I wish the medicine they gave you will work this time, Mama,_ he thinks, squeezing her hands briefly, _I wish I can keep making you proud. I wish you’ll be okay._

Victor blows out his candles.

When he lifts his head and his mother asks him what he wished for, Victor shrugs with a smile and says, “I wished for a puppy.”

His mom raises an intrigue eyebrow. “We’ll see,” she answers, and then quickly swipes her finger across the cake and smudges it on Victor’s face, yelling in triumph when Victor leans away with a yelp.

“Mama! Mama, wait—this is ridiculous,” Victor protests, laughing helplessly as his mother spreads the frosting further on his skin. It’s silly, Victor muses, grinning as he gets his revenge by wiping his sticky blue face on his mom’s cheek and his mother’s laughter echoes melodiously in their apartment.

Victor will have it no other way.

 

Picture this:

Victor is sixteen, sitting on the uncomfortable plastic chair for god knows how long now.

There are no balloons on the cold, pristine floor. No torn wrappers littering their room.

Instead, there’s Victor hunched over his mother’s frail sleeping form on the hospital bed, tears blurring his vision.

There is no “Happy Birthday” song.

Instead, there’s Makkachin’s sad whining by the door, curled up into a tiny ball of brown fur. There’s the dull sound of the heart monitor, beeping every 3.5 seconds (Victor knows, _he_ _timed it down_ , and every moment it misses the pattern, Victor chokes on the lump of fear stuck on his throat). There’s the silence, the white noise, ringing painfully in his ears, and the only thing Victor wants is to hear his mother’s laughter again.

There is no blue cake this time.

No candles to blow out.

But Victor still squeezes his eyes shut, swallows back a quiet sob, and wishes.

_Please._

_Please._

 

Picture this:

Victor is eighteen, and he has stopped celebrating his birthday.

 

Picture this:

Victor is twenty-six, coming home from the bar with the stench of vodka and a bone-deep exhaustion he can’t seem to shake off. When he opens the door, it’s the hollow silence that welcomes him home, along with the sight of a too-clean, too-peaceful apartment. A quick glance to the side confirms that Makkachin is asleep on top of the living room carpet.

There are no balloons, no presents waiting to be opened.

_I’m too old for silly things anyway,_ Victor decides, sighing inaudibly, and makes a beeline toward the kitchen as soon as he closes the door. He drops his bag on one of the chairs and sets down the paper bag he’s gripping tight on the counter, too, before carefully taking out the small box inside. Victor takes off the lid and stares at the blue-frosted cupcake that sits there. A white candle rolls out of the bag, hitting the side of the box. It’s all nothing more than a sad, pathetic attempt to recreate what he once had.

It’s been years since he stopped celebrating, and Victor doesn’t exactly know what urged him to start doing it again. Boredom, maybe. Or drunkenness. Well, it’s either those, or the crushing weight of loneliness that makes his chest want to cave in into itself. Victor almost wants to laugh, if he didn’t feel so much like breaking down sobbing.

Something bumps into his leg then and Victor looks down, managing a weak smile. He releases a breath he doesn’t even know he’s holding. “Makkachin,” he whispers softly, reaching down to scratch behind the poodle’s ear. Victor pretends there aren’t tears sliding down the side of his face. “Did I wake you, boy?”

He makes a snap decision to raise Makkachin’s front paws up and put them up on a chair so that his dog is standing on its hind legs, at eye level with the cupcake. The sight is ridiculous enough to make Victor snort into his palm, and he grins when Makkachin barks at the cupcake, wagging his tail excitedly.

“Let’s try this again, okay?”

With trembling fingers, Victor buries the candle in the middle of the cupcake and lights it with a match, bathing him and Makkachin in a soft, orange light. Victor holds on to Makkachin’s furry paws, takes a deep breath, and looks at the flickering flame.

Softly, in an achingly hushed voice, Victor sings.

“Happy birthday _Vitya_ , happy birthday _Vitya_ —”

_I wish Makkachin would never leave me. He’s the only one I have left._

_I wish I won’t be alone anymore._

“Happy birthday, little ice prince—”

_I wish I can remember what it’s like to be happy._

“Happy birthday to you…”

_I wish—_

_I wish—_

Victor closes his eyes and blows out the candle.

 

Picture this:

Victor is twenty-eight, a thousand miles away from Russia, and he wakes up with his nose buried against soft hair strands and a sleep-warm body inside his embrace. The room is silent, still dark and peaceful. Just as Victor wonders what woke him, his phone vibrates on the bedside table. He gropes for it, squinting at the too bright screen and reads the blurry message.

**From:** Yura

**To:** Me

**Sent at 12:00 a.m.**

                _happy aging day, old man_

Victor blinks sluggishly. He almost forgot that tomorrow—well, today, is his birthday. Victor waits for the sting brought about by Yura’s greeting. He waits for the crushing ache and the bitter feeling of being reminded.

But Yuuri is pressed flushed against his side and the room is still and dark and peaceful, and no such thing comes to him. There’s nothing there save for a deep sort of quietness inside his chest, like something once lost has been returned to him and for a moment, it lulls him back to sleep.

When he wakes up again, Victor is twenty-nine years-old.

There’s sunlight streaming inside through the window, bathing the figure next to him in gold, and Victor’s face shifts from sleepy confusion to a slow, indulgent smile. He doesn’t think twice before he presses his lips against the sliver of skin just peeking above the shirt collar of his bedmate.

Said bedmate sighs and scoots backwards, deeper into Victor’s arms. “Victor,” Yuuri yawns, definitely still half-unconscious. He reaches for Victor’s hand and threads their fingers together. “Hi.”

It feels too surreal all of a sudden, too soft, too beautiful—it feels a little like Victor is still dreaming.

It makes Victor smile a little wider, fall a little more in love. “Hello,” he says and presses another kiss on Yuuri’s nape, purposefully moving his mouth lower. “Good morning, _solnyshko._ ”

“It’s too early,” Yuuri complains, but doesn’t stop Victor from pressing more kisses against his skin. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know,” Victor says and shifts to glance at the clock. It’s only 6 a.m.—definitely too early for Yuuri, especially on a free day—and he knows Yuuri will kill him if he says it. (Maybe not kill him. Yuuri loves him too much for that. But Yuuri will definitely be unhappy and Victor doesn’t like Yuuri being unhappy.)

So Victor says, “The clock says it’s time for you to kiss me.”

Yuuri snorts. “It’s too early, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Victor hums.

Yuuri picks up his glasses, puts them on, and turns to read the time himself. After he does, he regards Victor with a raised eyebrow and a badly suppressed smile. It’s supposed to make him look stern, Victor knows, but Yuuri’s nest of a hair ruins the intended effect.

“It’s 6 o’clock,” Yuuri says. “In the morning.”

Victor grins brightly up at him without shame. “I love you.”

Yuuri gives up and shakes his head, huffing out a laugh. “I love you, too,” he says, and really, Victor can never get tired of hearing it. Yuuri kisses him then, without any warning, and it takes the breath out of Victor’s lungs so sweetly that it hurts. Yuuri keeps it sweet and chaste but Victor closes his eyes and drowns in it all the same, reveling in the sensation of Yuuri’s soft lips against his own and Yuuri’s gentle hand splayed warm over his jaw.

When they pull apart, Yuuri looks down on him with an almost victorious sort of smile. “Thank you for waking me up.”

It’s Victor’s turn to snort. “Really?”

“Really,” Yuuri says, and then gets up and out of bed without further explanation.

“Where are you going?” Victor asks, confused, but Yuuri only says “I’ll be right back!” and then Victor is left alone in their room.

Victor sighs. _There really is no stopping Yuuri when he puts his mind to it._

He grabs his phone, remembering Yura’s text, and reads it again. It sounds a lot meaner now that Victor is fully awake. Trust Yura to turn a birthday greeting into something insulting. Victor shakes his head but replies with a “Thank you!” anyway, and proceeds to flood Yura’s inbox with glittery heart emojis just to piss him off.

Victor puts down his phone, satisfied, and when he looks up at the doorway again, there’s Yuuri slowly approaching with a cake slice balanced in his hands and Makkachin trotting right behind him.

Victor’s breath catches in his throat.

“Yuuri—“

“I slipped out of bed, last night,” Yuuri admits sheepishly, allowing Makkachin to pass through first and greet Victor with a slobbering kiss. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“I—,” Victor stammers, absentmindedly petting Makkachin and staring wide-eyed at the cake. “Yuuri, I’m—you didn’t have to—“

“You didn’t really think I’d forget your birthday, did you?” Yuuri says, kneeling on the bed in the most careful way possible. He smiles shyly, and the sight—along with the cake and all that Yuuri is doing right now—does bad things to Victor’s heart.

“I tried my best,” Yuuri says, worrying his lip as he watches Victor’s reaction. “It didn’t really look that great at the end, but I hope it doesn’t taste as bad as it looks?”

Victor swallows back the lump in his throat and looks down at the cake. It’s an unnatural shade of blue, white frosting smeared rather unevenly around it. Yuuri has extraordinary talent as a skater but that clearly doesn't apply to baking. Victor can't even tell what flavor it is. It’s ugly and it’s perfect, and Victor’s eyes are starting to sting.

When the tears fall, Yuuri's mouth drops open in panic and he almost lets go of the plate. “V-Victor?! Victor, don’t cry, I’m sorry—“

Victor laughs.

It stops Yuuri in whatever panicked thought he’s gotten himself into this time. Victor laughs, wet and a little painful, but every breath that goes out of him feels cathartic. He laughs until Yuuri has stopped panicking and has settled for staring confusedly at him, until he has tears slipping out of his eyes and down to his cheeks.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Victor chuckles, smiling. When he looks at Yuuri again, his eyes are red-rimmed and puffy but Victor smiles like he hadn’t ever before. The cake is such a familiar sight and Victor doesn't understand how it can feel so different this time around. “It’s perfect,” Victor says, almost breathless. “I love it.”

“Are you okay?” Yuuri asks. He uses one hand to wipe away Victor’s tears and cups his cheek. “Victor?”

“Yes,” Victor says. He tugs at Yuuri’s hand until Yuuri sets the plate down and Victor can kiss the life out of him. “Yes.”

The cake is blue and ugly and Victor has laughed like a madman and has cried his eyes out and he’s a thousand miles away, in an onsen in Japan with the love of his life right in front of him asking him if he's okay. It's silly. But it's Victor's birthday and people are allowed to be silly on their birthdays.

So Victor is okay.

He’s very much okay.

 

Picture this:

Victor is twenty-nine years-old.

When they settle back down on the bed and the hysterics have calmed down, Yuuri lights a candle atop the cake and asks Victor to make a wish.

And Victor turns to him with a soft smile and whispers, “I wish for this. Always.”

Victor closes his eyes and blows out the candle.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Listen. 
> 
> L i s t e n.
> 
> Yuuri didn't know about the blue cake. Victor didn't tell him. The reason why the cake is blue is because our boy Yuuri decided to bake a goddamn red velvet cake at ass o'clock and found out too late that he didn't have red food coloring. The only available food coloring was blue, and so blue it was.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed the fic! I'm happy to have written again!


End file.
